The Lying Wife, page 1
The Lying Wife
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A Letter from Kathryn
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Kathryn Croft
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For Steve and Sharon
Prologue
Now
I am a wife. A mother. A friend. But now I am also a murderer.
Sitting across from me, his arms folded as he leans forward, DS Connolly shakes his head. He is a handsome man, but when I look at him, all I see is his label. Police officer. He is here to make sure I pay for what I’ve done.
Is there sadness in his eyes? He certainly isn’t gloating. Does he pity me because I don’t look like a murderer? Or talk or act like one? What does a killer look like anyway? Before now I would have been able to produce a description. Someone with a wild or blank expression, something not quite right. But now I know differently.
‘Do you understand what’s happening?’ DS Connolly says. ‘That you’re being charged with murder?’
Murder. It’s a strange word. It’s probably been used a thousand times in this cold, sterile room, but somehow it feels out of place. As incongruous as I am. I nod, but he doesn’t look convinced. Perhaps he thinks I’m not all there, that I’ll plead temporary insanity. But he’s wrong. My thoughts have never felt more lucid.
From beside him, his female colleague, whose name I have already forgotten, stares at me, but says nothing. I turn away from the judgement on her face – it will scar me if I hold her gaze – and back to DS Connolly.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a solicitor here with you?’ he asks.
This time I nod, but it does nothing to erase his frown. He’s being nice to me because I have been cooperative. I haven’t fussed or complained. I’ve seen enough television programmes to know I should ask for legal representation, but what’s the point? I must be their ideal suspect. Is that the right word? Well, whatever the case, I will wear the label as I do the others.
He shrugs and pushes my polystyrene cup further towards me. The tea is bound to be cold by now, but I force myself to drink the tepid liquid. It is flavourless, as if my taste buds have numbed, every part of me frozen by what I’ve done.
I stare into my drink, avoiding DS Connolly’s searching eyes. If I look at him, I will lose my defences. It would probably be good to cry, to release the remorse in which I’m drowning, but I refuse. Not until I am alone. There is blood on my hands and I need to suffer the consequences.
The female officer flicks through the papers she is holding and then nods to DS Connolly.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Are you ready to talk? To tell us everything? We’ll be recording this.’ He indicates the tape recorder on the table. It contains three tapes and looks as if it belongs to a past decade, but I try to ignore it, keeping my eyes on him.
Nodding, I push aside my cup. ‘I’m ready.’
Chapter One
Three Months Earlier
I stand at the front door, holding it open, a clownish smile on my face as I take a deep breath in preparation. How many times have I done this now? Surely it should be getting easier? But the pounding in my chest begins, and the palms of my hands are clammy.
‘Where’s Dad? He said he’d be home early today.’ Dillon shoves past me and throws down his school bag. It slides across the floor, reaching my foot.
‘Pick that up, Dillon. You know where it goes.’ And so today’s argument starts: me asserting my authority, Dillon ignoring it, the usual shouts of You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my mum! But still I persist, hoping that if I’m consistent and determined, things will begin to get easier.
Dillon is taller than me, and with no shoes on I feel like a mouse, but I won’t be intimidated. I’m not afraid of disciplining him, even if I am on shaky ground here, in this house that is more his than mine. In his eyes I am a usurper, but in my eyes I am his mother.
At least he is speaking to me. Most days, unless James is around, all I’m offered is a grunt, or more often than not, cold silence. I wouldn’t mind if I could put his surliness down to normal teenage hormones. But with everyone else, Dillon is the epitome of affability. Even his younger brother – most fifteen-year-old boys’ idea of a pain in the arse – gets the real Dillon.
Eventually he picks up his bag, hanging it on the coat hook with a huff and snarl. Ignoring him, I answer his question. ‘Your dad got called to do a shoot. In Surrey, I think.’ Somehow I keep the smile on my face, reminding myself my persistence will pay off.
But Dillon is already breezing into the kitchen, where he knows Luke will be, slamming the door behind him. I close the front door and, with a deep breath, follow him, preparing myself to enter a war zone.
The boys are perched on stools at the breakfast bar and fall silent as I enter, eyeing me suspiciously. I don’t know what they think I’m going to do, but surely eight months have been enough time to get used to me?
I run through my usual script. Drinks? Got our own. Food? Not hungry. Any homework I can help with? Stop nagging. It has barely altered since I moved in. Since I became their mother.
Luke tugs at his brother’s arm. ‘But Dad said he’d watch me play footy today.’ Dillon must have already told him the news about James working late, and they are as disappointed as I am.
‘I’ll come,’ I say, already guessing Luke’s answer. Although with my offer I have deviated slightly from the script, I can still predict the outcome.
Luke looks at me before turning away again.
‘It’s okay, I’ll go with you,’ Dillon says. And now they are huddled together, speaking in low voices. Even though I can’t know for sure if they are whispering about me – it could be something innocent like school or TV – they know what effect their apparent conspiring has.
I walk to the other side of the breakfast bar and flick on the kettle. Do I try again? Some days I don’t have the energy, but today I will give it a go. ‘I’ll drop you at the sports centre,’ I say to Luke. This is a bonding opportunity I can’t miss. ‘Dillon needs to stay at home and revise. He’s got exams coming up.’
Luke stops whispering and looks up at me. For a moment I think I’ve made progress, but then he speaks. ‘No!’ I am not surprised by his response, but it still hurts.
‘Sorry, but that’s final. Dillon, you know your dad wants you home studying in the evenings.’ I wait for the battle to begin, and the boys turn to each other but neither of them says anything.
Have I really managed to avoid another argument? I put a teabag in a mug and smile at them. ‘Okay. Well, dinner will be ready at six.’ I keep my tone perky; otherwise, like rats, they will sense and prey off my fear.
Luke wrinkles his face. ‘Not spaghetti again?’ he says.
Forgetting about my tea, I pick up a J-cloth and dampen it under the tap. ‘Yes, spaghetti.’ I will not argue with them about food. I learned that lesson very quickly. Besides, it was only last week that Luke was asking for spaghetti, so I know what game he’s playing.
‘Whatever,’ they say in unison. Same words, same thoughts. It might be easier if at least one of them liked me. I can understand Luke’s resistance; how can a twelve-year-old be expected to welcome his father’s new wife with open arms? But Dillon’s attitude surprises me. He’s got a full life: friends, school, hobbies, probably even a girlfriend, so I find his resistance harder to fathom. And I know this is not about the accident.
While they resume their whispering, I wipe down the worktops, each swipe of the cloth a stark reminder that this isn’t my kitchen. The black granite worktops are beautiful, yes, but they wouldn’t have been my choice. Perhaps they are too luxurious, too distinguished for me. And all they do is remind me I am out of place here, in somebody else’s home, trying my best to be a mother to somebody else’s children.
By the time I’ve finished cleaning up, the boys have vanished. I hear the front door slam and rush to the living room window, the damp cloth still in my hand.
I watch them race down the road, neither boy daring to turn back to see if I’ve spotted their trick. I run outside in my bare feet, shouting their names, but it’s too late. For now, they ha
James insists if I give it time, they will grow used to me. Although I am tempted, I never reply that I don’t want them to get used to me. I want them to like me. He says they don’t even like him half the time, but we both know he’s just being kind.
The dinner won’t take long to prepare, so now I have an hour and a half to myself. I finish making my tea and sink into the sofa. Lauren’s sofa. On the coffee table I spot the magazine I bought from the corner shop a few days ago, which I still haven’t been able to read. It’s not for lack of time. I simply can’t relax when things are so wrong.
I should do some extra studying, but I’m frazzled from my seminar this morning and even more exhausted after my encounter with the boys. So I sit back and close my eyes, hugging my mug to my chest, recharging my batteries. I must be ready for another round. It strikes me that I am partly to blame. I wanted motherhood so badly that I didn’t even flinch when James told me he had children.
My mobile rings, and in my eagerness to hear a friendly voice, I nearly spill my tea as I reach for the phone. The caller has to be James. Maybe he’s letting me know he won’t be late after all? Things are always better when he’s here; fear of his admonishment forces the boys to be civil. To be normal. But it is not James’ name flashing on the screen; it is my friend Bridgette’s. I’m not disappointed; she is a welcome tonic.
‘Callie? Are you busy? Can you talk?’ Her voice is too loud, as it always is, and I am forced to lower the volume.
I tell her I’m not busy, and she bombards me with a flurry of excited words. I’m so happy to hear from her that I don’t even take in what she’s saying. Instead, I let the sound of her voice wrap itself around me like a blanket, comforting in its warmth and familiarity.
‘You’re not okay, are you?’
‘I’m fine. Really.’
She coughs into the phone, a guttural rasp resulting from her ten-year smoking habit. ‘I can tell, Callie. You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you? I don’t care – it’s fine to switch off when I’m jabbering on – but it means you aren’t all right, so stop pretending you are.’
Our conversations always end up here. No matter how much time goes by, she will always check up on me. ‘Really, I’m okay.’
‘And everything’s all right there?’
‘James is great. My course is going well. I—’
‘Callie, you know I’m not talking about any of that. Are the boys still giving you grief?’
I fall silent. I don’t want to have this conversation again. Every time we speak it comes back to the boys. There is rarely a time in the day when they are not messing up my head, whether they are home or not.
‘Just the usual. But let’s not talk about that now. Please. I’m trying to give my head a break.’
Bridgette agrees and I hear the flick of her cigarette lighter, her voice becoming nasal as she inhales smoke. ‘Let’s meet up for a drink this evening. I can leave work early and be in Wimbledon by seven. I’ll call Debbie too. When was the last time we were all together?’ She will never say it but I know she holds me responsible. Since I married James I have had little time for anything other than studying and being a wife. And trying to be a mother.
I tell her I can’t and she tuts. ‘What is it this time?’
‘James is working late and I have to look after the boys. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, it can’t be helped.’ She exhales, her smoke hissing down the phone. ‘But we’re going out soon, no excuses. You’re twenty-eight, you should be having fun. Seeing your friends. Not stuck at home all the time.’
‘I’m only stuck at home because my course is home-study, Bridgette. Otherwise I’d hardly be here at all.’
I’ve told her this before, but she always forgets my point, so more often than not we fall into a debate about the ten-year age gap between James and me. And the fact that I have taken on his children. I know Bridgette likes James; she is only concerned about me.
‘Okay, okay,’ she says, quickly changing the subject. She tells me she’ll call Debbie and arrange for us all to meet next Friday. ‘We’ll have lunch,’ she suggests. ‘The boys will be at school then, won’t they?’
I tell her I’m looking forward to it, although I already dread their fussing and worrying. I am fine. I am in control.
* * *
By six-thirty there is no sign of the boys. They should have been back home no later than six, allowing time for Luke to change and for the inevitable slow saunter back. Why would they rush when they know they are in trouble?
I calculated the time so their food would be ready when they got in, but now the spaghetti sits cooling in the saucepan, and the mince is drying up. I’ve been hovering by the living room window for nearly half an hour, and now I am beginning to worry. What if they’re not just taking their time to annoy me?
In the hallway, I pull my jacket from the coat hook and step outside to see if I can spot them further down the road.
But there is no sign of either boy, and the street is deserted. Mrs Simmons appears next door, her legs wobbling unsteadily beneath her hunched frame as she struggles with a recycling bin.
‘Here, let me help you.’ Our gardens are separated by a flowerbed and I could easily step over it, but she shouted at me the last time I made that mistake. So I rush down our path and back up hers, before taking the bin from her frail, bony hands. ‘You do know they don’t collect the recycling tomorrow, Mrs Simmons? It’s the day after.’
She scowls. ‘I know that. I like to have it ready. I like to be organised.’ She looks me up and down, then rolls her eyes. I have no idea why; I am dressed acceptably enough in jeans and a loose T-shirt so there is nothing for her to judge. Nothing except the accident.
I take her bin to the kerb and ask her if she’s seen Dillon and Luke. If they’re nearby she will have noticed. In her living room, her armchair is strategically placed by the low bay window so she can peer out without having to move. Nothing escapes her.
She tuts and rolls her eyes again. ‘I saw them leave a while ago. Have you lost them?’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Lovely boys, aren’t they? So sad about their mother.’
I nod, and explain that the boys are late home for dinner. Mrs Simmons frowns; she’d probably been preparing to deliver a monologue about how perfect Lauren was. ‘That’s not like them to be late. Such polite and well-brought-up boys. But…’ She looks me up and down again. ‘I suppose they can be influenced by all sorts. You want to get on to their dad. He’ll know where they are.’
Leaving me speechless, as she usually does, she turns and shuffles back inside, attempting to shut the door three times before the lock finally clicks into place.
I rush back inside and grab the house phone, dialling Dillon’s number first. The voicemail message – his voice shouting over a dance track – threatens to deafen me. I run back out to check the street again and, with still no sign of the boys, try Luke’s mobile. His doesn’t even ring.
Something isn’t right.
I check I’ve got my keys and pull the door shut, walking up the road towards the sports centre. It has started to drizzle, but I ignore the droplets splashing onto my face. The closer I get, the more convinced I become that something awful has happened. I picture the way the boys’ faces light up when they hear James’ key turn in the front door, and it is hard to tell the rain from my tears.
By the time I arrive at the sports centre, my legs feel as if they are being weighed down by bricks. Although huge, the reception desk is manned by only one person: a young girl who looks barely older than Dillon. I ask her if the football match is over and she stops tapping on her keyboard, flashing a toothy smile at me. There is a huge gap between her front teeth and I can’t help staring at it. ‘The match finished over an hour ago.’ She offers nothing more and turns back to her monitor.
‘I’m looking for my sons. One of them was playing football and they haven’t come home yet. We only live ten minutes away.’
The girl’s face twists into a frown. ‘Maybe they’re just hanging out in the café?’ She resumes tapping on her keyboard, and I am already forgotten. This isn’t her concern; I am just an over-protective mother, worrying over nothing.
The café is loud and crammed with tracksuit-clad bodies. I scan every face, but none of them belong to Dillon or Luke. They’re not avoiding home for fear of a lecture; they get those often enough from me, but have never disappeared before. My fear increases and I rush outside, wondering how I’m going to tell James I’ve lost his children. That I didn’t stop them going off on their own and now something horrendous must have happened to them.
